


if the spirits knew how to forgive (would they?)

by Nottodaylogic (MandaloreArtist)



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, But also, Death, Happy Ending, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Mythology References, Non-Linear Narrative, because i freaking love Greek mythology, can you tell i read a lot of variants on the story, let me just say that agaon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandaloreArtist/pseuds/Nottodaylogic
Summary: He could hear the old poets whispering in his ears. He knew their stories well, thanks to his mother, who had fallen in love with the sun. She had told him of Bellerophon and Jason and Heracles—all heroes, all without happy endings.Arrogant, trusting, angry.Their downfalls had been buried in their flaws, inevitable.The old poets were fools.(written for the saf zine!)
Relationships: Cynthia Houston/Victoria Daniels (background), Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	if the spirits knew how to forgive (would they?)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the saf zine! you can find it here: https://issuu.com/tardisgrump/docs/fanzine_draft_2.pptx
> 
> i also did an art for it :D
> 
> thank you so so much to anny (tardisgrump) for organizing this, and to all the other incredible people who participated! this was really just. a super fun event :D

_ “Owen? Are you there?” _

_ “It’s me, Curt! You know, your fiancé? I’m so sorry for not being there when you left, but I’m here now! Where are you?” _

_ “Owen?!” _

_ “Oh, no. Please, please no.” _

_ “Don’t leave me.” _

* * *

“You can leave.”

Curt blinked.  _ That’s it?  _ “Wait, really?”

It really seemed like it’d have taken more than some (really rather good) singing, followed by sobbing at the Lord of the Underworld’s feet for several hours, to get the goddess to soften. He’d been at it for four years, trying to bring back his partner from the dead. 

They’d all told him he couldn’t. 

“With a catch,” Cynthia continued. “If at any point either of you doubt each other—if he stops walking, if you look back to make sure he’s still following behind—he’ll have to stay. Forever.”

He didn’t even hesitate before replying, “I can do that.”  _ He’ll be right behind me. _

Despite his confidence, Cynthia still seemed almost sorry when she continued, “and you know the tales.” He did. “You won’t know whether he’s there until you either cross back into the living or look behind you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t know why Cynthia still looked sad, but all that mattered was her jeweled hand, pointing towards the long tunnel up to the surface.

“Go ahead.”

Before Curt allowed himself to turn towards the tunnel, he spared Cynthia one final glance. Back in the land of the living, the cold, barren winter had arrived, and so Victoria had returned back down here into the Underworld. She paid no small amount of attention to Curt, sitting hand in hand with her wife. Their rings of obsidian and iron gleamed in the torchlight, and though she hadn’t said a word, the goddess seemed to nod towards him.

Those who said Cynthia was the tougher of the two clearly didn’t know who  _ really  _ ruled the Underworld.

He could hear the old poets whispering in his ears. He knew their stories well, thanks to his mother, who had fallen in love with the sun. She had told him of Bellerophon and Jason and Heracles—all heroes, all without happy endings.  _ Arrogant, trusting,  _ _ angry.  _ Their downfalls had been buried in their flaws, inevitable.

The old poets were fools.

_ We deserve a happy ending. _

With a deep breath, a spirit and two gods at his back, Curt marched headfirst into the void.

* * *

_ “We’re gonna get  _ married _ , Owen!”  _

_ “Yes, I know, Curt. Remind me why we scheduled this for  _ right before _ winter, again?” _

_ “Because it’s cold in the winter?” _

_ “But we’re working on  _ that,  _ not on making sure we save up enough for heating and blankets.”  _

_ “We’ll make it. Don’t worry.” _

_ “Sorry, love. Just can’t help but feel anxious.” _

* * *

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to see. 

He had been wrong. It was dark in the tunnel, yes, but not wholly so. There were chunks of glowing rock embedded in the walls, half-mined and beautiful. Every so often he would swear he could see a ghostly figure moving just out of sight, and he’d make to turn, before remembering the goddess’s words. 

_ Don’t look back. _

It had always been easy to trust Owen.

Not so easy was believing Curt was good enough to succeed where so many had failed, to do what so many heroes had not; he couldn’t cheat death.

Asclepius had been struck down by a lightning bolt not ungodly.

Orpheus, torn to pieces, sang forever in the river Lethe, or with the Muses, or on the island of Lesbos. 

Sisyphus’s boulder never reached its peak.

_ If they could not complete their quests,  _ the Muses sang in his ears,  _ what makes you think you can?  _

So he sang back. 

He sang a song of life, of walking towards the light, of hope and love. He sang to keep the shadows at bay, to keep his spirits up. Most importantly, he sang for Owen.

Owen, who’d kept him company for so many years. Owen, who’d believed in him when no one else could. Owen, who’d pushed him to be great, who’d kissed his chapped lips and told him not to give up, who’d made him fall in love simply by standing there. 

Owen, who’d left him too soon. 

Curt had faith in Owen, which was far was more valuable than any for himself.

* * *

_ “Marry me.” _

_ “I’m sorry?” _

_ “I can’t think of living without you by my side, Owen Carvour. Marry me. Become my husband.” _

_ “We barely have enough to last us the season, let alone to host a wedding party. Anyways, love, we both know my family won’t think of helping. Not like they couldn’t spare a dollar or fifty.”  _

_ “Come on, Owen! We don’t need their help—I’ll take on more jobs, or beg, or we’ll skip the party bit altogether. Just you, me, my mom, your siblings.” _

_ “...” _

_ “Please. Won’t you pity on a poor boy’s heart and stay by his side?” _

_ “... I think I'd have left long ago if I hadn’t planned on staying, darling.” _

_ “I hoped so, but you didn’t answer.” _

_ “...alright, yes. I’d love to.”  _

_ “Yes! ...are those tears?” _

_ “Shut up, what were you expecting?” _

_ “Honestly? Not that, although I hoped for a good reaction from my  _ fiancé _ , of course.” _

_ “Stooop.” _

* * *

He’d been walking for hours now. 

Maybe even days. 

His voice had given out long, long ago. He still kept trying to reply, to hear something other than his own footsteps.

_ Thump.  _

_ Thump.  _

_ Thump.  _

_ Thump.  _

Rhythmic, beating, a heart buried in the ground. His soles kept the time as he marched along. Somehow his boots hadn’t wasted away. 

He wasn’t the first one to walk this path. 

He wouldn’t be the last, either. 

_ Pathetic mortals, always so desperate.  _

He could barely even think in words anymore. He barely remembered his own name. 

Let alone why he had come in the first place. 

_ So confident you won’t fail you don’t consider the inevitability of death. _

His heart faltered.

_ It’s all futile. You’ll lose him sooner or later anyways.  _

In the end, it hadn’t Owen he had doubted, but himself. 

* * *

_ “Are you alright?” _

_ “No.” _

_ “...would you like company?” _

_ “...sure. It’s not like I’m staying long enough for you to let me down anyways.” _

_ “I wouldn’t, I promise you.” _

_ “Believe me, old boy, everyone does. It’s just a matter of when.” _

* * *

He couldn’t remember Owen’s face. 

He couldn’t bring up the image of his crooked jaw, his angular face, his long brown hair—no, it was black.  _ Right _ ? 

His eyes were beautiful, but he couldn’t remember their shade. 

He had to remember their shade. 

He couldn’t lose that. 

* * *

_ “Curt? Curt, we don’t have much time. I only have this one phone call.” _

_ “Curt?” _

_ “Are you there?” _

_ “I have to go. I—I don’t want to starve.” _

_ “I love you.” _

_ BEEP. _

* * *

Curt’s head slowly swiveled around. 

_ Owen. Owen. Owen. Owen. _

And then he stopped. 

_ What the hell am I doing?! _

It felt as though he had been walking for years now, and there was still no end in sight. This was insane. He couldn’t give up now. He couldn’t give up Owen. 

_ Virgil’s madness _ , he thought with a shock. 

“At least it failed,” Curt told the walls with a shaky laugh. 

_ It has never failed, _ the walls taunted back.  _ You will not survive this trip.  _

* * *

_ “I have an offer for you.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Come with me. The poet is worthless.” _

_ “Get the fuck away from me.” _

_ “You’re shivering, you’re starving, you’re dirt poor. You deserve more than that worthless weakling can give you.” _

_ “Oh, fuck you.” _

_ “You’ll see. You’ll see how he’ll fail you.” _

* * *

The silence seemed moments from driving him insane. Not even his own footsteps made sound, and he had to snap by his ear to make sure he hadn’t gone deaf. By now, he had given up on speech. His throat screamed soundlessly, parched. Water was a need of the living, however, and so, water he would have to go without. At least until he left the tunnel. 

_ If  _ he ever left the tunnel. 

He couldn’t even be sure whether there was an end to this hell. 

Just as he was about to sit down, give up, there was a light. 

A light at the end of the tunnel

He ran for it, nearly tripping over his own sore legs in the process.  _ Please—please—I have to— _

He stepped into the glare of the sun. 

Cold, freezing,  _ alive  _ winter greeted him.  _ We made it!  _

Curt sank to his hands and knees and felt the snow underneath him. He barely noticed the water seeping in through holes in his soles. His hands shook—no, not just his hands; his entire body was shaking. He’d lost his jacket somewhere along the way, but the chill was more than welcome after the endless nothing. 

“Curt?”

_ Oh, thank the gods. _

“I’m sorry.”

Curt got to his feet slowly, shakily, and finally looked back. 

And Owen was there.

His pale skin shone in the light. He looked just as he had the last time Curt had seen him. He looked as if he’d been on edge for a while now. He trembled. There was a faint glow surrounding him, illuminating the tears running down his face.

Owen was… crying.

Something was wrong.

_ Why isn’t he smiling?  _ Owen never cried if he could help it—and only once from happiness. Even then, he’d had allergies. So if he was crying… _ No. We made it. I did it. I swear, I did it. _

And then Curt realized just what seemed so wrong, and it hit him hard enough to make him stumble.

Owen’s feet weren’t on the snow.

He still hadn’t crossed into the land of the living.

In fact, Owen’s boots were sinking into the dirt of the tunnel as if it were quicksand, slow as molasses. His eyes widened, and there, pure terror open and vulnerable in his expression. Owen covered his mouth. He looked horrified.

Curt could barely speak through the lump in his throat—fear and despair and something that still felt like traitorous hope.  _ No _ . “You—you didn’t think I—”

“I’m so sorry. I lo—”

A hole opened up underneath Owen, who was a rock on a spider’s web, and he fell.

There was no one there. 

Curt knelt on the ground and stared down at the place where his last hope at life had stood.

* * *

_ “Hold on, where are you going?” _

_ “None of your business.” _

_ “Fair enough. What’s your name?”  _

_ “Owen. Yours?” _

_ “Curt. Where are you headed?” _

_ “Away.” _

_ “Ah. From, or towards?” _

_ “Either, so long as I’m gone from this place.” _

_ “Will you allow me to accompany you?” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “...” _

_ “That’s what I thought.” _

* * *

It’s like a dream, boarding the ferry. 

He’d tried to cheat his way here once before. He wouldn’t again.

The wait had felt like an eternity. It honestly might have been. 

And then he laid eyes on Owen again.

At last.

* * *

_ “...”  _

_ “...” _

_ “Wait!” _

_ “Do you have something to say, or should I waste more of my time?” _

_ “You should because you want to. Because you trust me. Because I swear to you, right now, I’ll never let you go.”  _

_ “...alright. Fine. Day’s not getting any longer.” _

**Author's Note:**

> i’m sometimes on tumblr at nottodaylogic :)


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